


Hard Men in Hard Times

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [26]
Category: Lie to Me (TV), Original Work
Genre: F/M, M/M, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, bad language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3940741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young woman with a deadly power serves a dangerous criminal boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard Men in Hard Times

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.   
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this original work, which was inspired by many different stories.
> 
> Visual reference:  
> White: Harvey Keitel  
> Colin: Tim Roth  
> Isobel: Kelli Williams

            White looked back over his shoulder as the balcony door slid open; but it was only Colin. “She still asleep?” he asked the younger man, taking another drag on his cigarette.

            “Yeah, I just checked on her.” Colin pulled his coat around himself more tightly and gazed off the balcony at the glittering city below them. It was hard to believe this was the same drab, congested city they had driven into this morning—but maybe what Vassily said was true, that people who were depressed all day wanted to party hard all night. It certainly looked that way from inside the cacophonous casino.

            “She’ll be okay,” White commented, staring out at the view himself. “Every time we travel some f—k makes a pass at her.”

            “This was a little more than a f‑‑‑‑n’ pass,” Colin replied, thinking of Isobel’s bruised face and torn dress.

            “I know, I know,” White agreed. “But you see she can take care of herself.”

            “She shoot that guy or what?” Colin asked, since the topic was now apparently open.

            White snorted. “Or what. You didn’t hear a gunshot, did you?” Colin hadn’t. He hadn’t really thought the man was shot, but it seemed like a good opener. “I shoulda had you help Michel clean up,” White went on thoughtfully. “Then you woulda got a good look at what happens when you f—k with Isobel.”

            Colin’s expression was surprised, and offended. “I would _never_ hurt Isobel.”

            White tapped his cigarette over the balcony. “Don’t get f‑‑‑‑n’ p---y, kid, I know you wouldn’t.” White would never have left them alone so much if he though Colin would try anything with her—he didn’t want to lose a promising assistant.

            Somewhat mollified by White’s assertion, Colin risked another question. “So—what _does_ happen? When someone f—ks with Isobel?”

            “They die,” White answered shortly, and unhelpfully. “In a very unpleasant way.” He was quiet for a long moment and Colin thought that was all he was going to get. “They start to bleed,” he finally went on, staring out at the city. “Nose, mouth, ears. Fingernails. Right through the skin, finally.” Colin grimaced. “Must be f‑‑‑‑n’ painful, too, ‘cause they scream the whole time, like I never heard nobody f‑‑‑‑n’ scream. Takes about ten minutes ‘til they finally kick it, unless someone puts ‘em out of their f‑‑‑‑n’ misery first.” White shook his head and took another drag on the cigarette. “You see it happen once, you never f‑‑‑‑n’ forget it.”

            Colin could understand that. But there was still a lot he _didn’t_ understand, which seemed pretty important. “But—how does that happen? How can she do that?”

            White shrugged. “I dunno. It just happens. She doesn’t _do_ it, it just happens,” he tried to clarify. “She doesn’t _decide_ , ‘This d—k’s f‑‑‑‑n’ with me, I’m gonna kill him in a f‑‑‑‑n’ horrible way.’ Just, you f—k with her, that’s what happens. She can’t help it.” He snorted. “She’d probably rather get raped than kill someone like that, but she ain’t got a f‑‑‑‑n’ choice in the matter.”

            Colin’s hands clenched at the thought of Isobel being hurt. More. “Well I’m glad it f‑‑‑‑n’ happens,” he declared hotly. “Anyone who f—ks with her deserves it.”

            White had a more balanced view of it. “Well, sometimes it happens to people who _aren’t_ tryin’ to hurt her,” he revealed. “Sometimes it happens to people she _wants_ to f—k. Yeah, I thought you might find that alarming,” he added with dark humor, seeing Colin’s expression.

            “What do you mean, it happens to people she _wants_ to f—k?” the younger man demanded.

            “Well not _everyone_ ,” White pointed out. “It don’t happen to me and we f—k all the time.” Colin was well aware of that. “But,” he added more seriously, “I’ve lost a couple of guys that way. They like her, she likes them, no f‑‑‑‑n’ problem, they have a nice dinner, a little wine, retire to the bedroom, and fifteen minutes later the poor b-----d is screamin’ his f‑‑‑‑n’ head off, and not because he’s f‑‑‑‑n’ enjoyin’ himself.”

            Colin took one important lesson from this sober story. “You let Isobel f—k other people?”

            “C----t, kid, quit thinkin’ with your d—k for a minute,” White said, rolling his eyes. “Isobel can f—k whoever she wants, she don’t need _my_ permission. I don’t need _her_ permission to f—k _you_ , do I?” Now Colin rolled _his_ eyes. “She just don’t _like_ to go around f‑‑‑‑n’ people, because sometimes it ends badly. And the people we associate with are usually b-----ds anyway,” he admitted.

            Colin nodded in agreement. Hard men in hard times, that’s what White always said. There was room for a kind of honor in that, but not much room for softness or sentiment, things that a woman like Isobel would appreciate.

            Which brought him right back to the important part. “So… you’d be okay with Isobel f‑‑‑‑‑g someone else, if she wanted to?” Hypothetically, of course.

            White blinked at him. “Kid, were you not listenin’ during the f‑‑‑‑n’ _bleeding through your pores_ part?”

            “No, I was—“

            “‘Cause I’m seriously f‑‑‑‑n’ worried about you, you _looked_ like you were f‑‑‑‑n’ listenin’—“

            “I was!”

            “—but you keep askin’ me these stupid f‑‑‑‑n’ questions like some kinda horny f‑‑‑‑n’ moron—“

            “I’m listenin’, I’m listenin’!” Colin insisted. “I just wanna make sure you ain’t gonna f‑‑‑‑n’ shoot me if I try to—“ He stopped suddenly, wondering if he’d said too much.

            White let him squirm guiltily for a minute. “If you try to--? If you try to what? You try anything Isobel doesn’t want, it ain’t _me_ you gotta f‑‑‑‑n’ worry about.”

            “No, I would never—“

            “But then that’s the f‑‑‑‑n’ problem, ain’t it?” White went on. “You try something Isobel _does_ want, you might end up just as f----d.” And not in a good way.

            The thought certainly put a damper on Colin’s enthusiasm. “Well, how come nothin’ bad happens to _you_?”

            “Only the first time is dangerous,” White corrected. “You survive the first time, you’re good after that. Better than good,” he added with some admiration. “She is somethin’ f‑‑‑‑n’ special, no doubt.” Colin didn’t really need to hear that, he decided, not when it seemed so unlikely he would ever experience it first-hand. “But I don’t know why it was okay for me, and not others,” he went on, in answer to Colin’s question. “In my personal experience she has tried to f--k four guys, and only two have survived it. Maybe it’s just fifty-fifty odds.”

            “Who’s the other guy? Who survived?” Colin wanted to know immediately.

            “Michel.”

            His eyes bugged out. “Michel? F‑‑‑‑n’--f‑‑‑‑n’ Michel?!” he sputtered indignantly. “You let f‑‑‑‑n’ Michel f—k Isobel!?”

            “What are you gettin’ so f‑‑‑‑n’ worked up about?” White asked. “Yeah, I let Michel f—k Isobel. She was fine with it, he’s not a bad guy. Are you f‑‑‑‑n’ _pouting_?” he accused Colin, who had turned his back on the older man. “Do _not_ f‑‑‑‑n’ pout because Michel has f----d Isobel and you haven’t. That is f‑‑‑‑n’ childish. You wanna hear about the other two guys she tried to f—k, who were just as good as Michel, who you never met because I had to f‑‑‑‑n’ _shoot them_ so they’d die fast instead of f‑‑‑‑n’ slow?”

            “No, no,” Colin sighed, turning back around. He tried not to pout. “Just—she don’t even _talk_ to Michel. Why would she wanna f—k him? Do they still f—k?”

            “No, they only f----d the one time,” White assured him, slightly condescending. “That’s all it took. And she did it ‘cause I asked her to.”

            Colin goggled at him again. “Why’d you _ask_ her to f—k Michel? Were you tryin’ to get rid of him or somethin’?”

            “No, moron,” White snapped. “You got a one- f‑‑‑‑n’-track mind, you know that? You can’t go around gettin’ jealous like that. It ain’t healthy.”

            “I ain’t _jealous_ ,” Colin insisted petulantly.

            “Like s—t you ain’t,” White observed. “You ain’t even f----d her yet and you’re already jealous of those who have. I _wanted_ you to f—k her, but I ain’t gonna suggest it if you’ve got such a poor attitude already.”

            _That_ got Colin’s attention, as White knew it would. “You _want_ me to f—k Isobel?”

            “Well, it’s complicated,” White sighed, leaning on the railing. “I mean, I like you, kid. You got potential. I don’t wanna see you f‑‑‑‑n’ bleedin’ out on the bedroom floor.”

            Colin leaned on the railing next to him. “Yeah, I don’t want that to happen to me, either,” he agreed, thinking of the corpse he had briefly witnessed.

            “But, if you f—k Isobel and survive,” White went on, “not only do you get the considerable pleasure of _continuing_ to f—k Isobel, should she want to—“

            “Which she doesn’t, with Michel, right?” Colin interrupted.

            “Shut up when I’m talkin’,” White instructed him. “The other thing you get is, Isobel can heal you.”

            “What?”

            “You seen her do it,” White reminded him. “When I got whacked with that pipe a couple months ago?”

            “Well, I was kinda busy kickin’ the a-s of the guy who whacked you,” Colin replied, “but I remember seein’ you with your hand on her t-ts.”

            White rolled his eyes. “My hand was over her _heart_ , moron. That’s how it works, she puts her hand over my heart, I put mine over hers, and she heals me. F‑‑‑‑n’ hurts, though, like relivin’ the injury all over again,” he added ruefully. “But worth it, to not be dead or f‑‑‑‑n’ paralyzed or something.”

            “But it only works if you’ve f----d her?” Colin surmised.

            “Now you’re gettin’ it,” White told him. “If you f—k Isobel and survive, she can heal any injury you get.”

            “Anything?”

            “Far as I know,” White shrugged. He held up his cigarette with a smirk. “Even lung damage from these f‑‑‑‑n’ things.”

            Colin continued to think about this. “So she can heal Michel? And you. But no one else.”

            “That’s the breaks, kid,” White told him. “Be nice if she could heal a few more guys around here, but—fifty-fifty, you know? And she don’t like to experiment too much.”

            Colin nodded and was quiet for a moment. “So, what counts as f-----g?” he queried.

            “What?”

            “You know, does it only count if it’s full-on f-----g,” Colin explained, using some appropriate hand gestures, “so that a b-----b would be safe, or something like that?” He tried to sound like he was merely scientifically inquisitive, but White saw through that immediately.

            “J---s f‑‑‑‑n’ C----t,” he muttered helplessly, dropping his spent cigarette over the balcony. “I am sorry I f‑‑‑‑n’ told you about this, I really am.”

            “Does it affect other women?” Colin pressed curiously. “Like, if Isobel and some other chick were gettin’ it on, would that be dangerous? What about, say, an innocent bystander?”

            “Yeah, a f‑‑‑‑n’ innocent bystander,” White repeated sarcastically. “I’m tellin’ you, Isobel don’t like to mess around with it. But I know you ain’t f‑‑‑‑n’ listenin’ to me anymore anyway, you just f‑‑‑‑n’ take it up with her. Bring in the sheep for all I f‑‑‑‑n’ care. I got a feelin’ you ain’t gonna survive this, just on principle, but I know you ain’t heard nothin’ I said since you found out Isobel can f—k other people.”

            “What about if you wear a rubber?” Colin persisted. “That’d be safer, right? That’s safe sex, right there.”

            “I also regret what I said about you havin’ potential,” White decided. “Come on, let’s go back inside,” he added with a sigh. “She’s not gonna be happy to wake up alone.”

**

            Michel didn’t see how the boy could still be alive, not with that much blood pooling around him and rolling down the incline he’d been placed on. He didn’t see how there could be that much blood in the whole human body, in fact. But when White knelt down beside him and tapped his face lightly, his eyes fluttered open, glazed and unfocused but still animate.

            “Alright, you’re gonna be alright now, kid,” White promised, grabbing the bloody hand that flailed towards him. The boy had been deathly still before but now he began to squirm, the sticky, drying blood tugging on his ruined suit.

            “Sorry—didn’t—wait—“ he mumbled, the words forced past his pale lips with great effort.

            “It’s alright, don’t talk, be still,” White told him. “Hey, stop it.” The boy transferred his grip from White’s hands to his jacket, as if trying to pull himself up. His strength was feeble at the moment, however, so White ignored his efforts and focused on pulling back the bloody cloth covering his midsection. “You!” he ordered one of the men watching him warily. “Get me a towel or something. Make sure it’s clean! Don’t you guys even know any f----n’ first aid?”

            The leader of this rabble, whom Michel was not quite holding his gun on, sneered in response. “Most people who get gut-shot, we leave behind to die,” Rodan spat contemptuously.

            White was on his feet in an instant, easily dislodging the boy’s grip on him. “Listen to me, you little p-----t,” he growled in Rodan’s face, “you don’t understand who you’re f----n’ with her. That kid ain’t ‘most people.’ That kid dies, I’m gonna burn this f----n’ s—thole to the ground, with all of you f----rs in it.” There was no need for White to shout to convey the level of his ire.

            Rodan was not the sort to be easily intimidated, however—he would hardly have attained his current position if he were. “If you didn’t want your little pet hurt, you shouldn’t have sent him along with us!” he sneered.

            “And _you_ shouldn’t f----n’ have pulled this operation where you were outgunned and outmaneuvered!” White retorted. “It was f----n’ _foolish_. And, it should not have taken you two f‑‑‑‑n’ hours to call me after you f----d up this operation!”

            White didn’t give Rodan a chance to respond to that but rather turned his back on the other man and went back to the boy on the floor, who had started to make noise again, little whimpers and whines and half-formed words. Rodan’s eyes narrowed at the dressing-down, but Michel was watching him and had no qualms about containing him if necessary.

            “I told you to shut up,” White reminded the boy fondly, kneeling back down beside him. “Here, gimme that.” He snatched a clean-looking towel from the man he’d sent to find one. “Don’t you f‑‑‑‑n’ worry, kid, we’re gonna get you home soon,” White continued, deftly unbuckling the belt around the boy’s waist. He slipped the folded towel halfway into his pants, then cinched the belt back tightly to hold it in place. The boy was quieter now, his breaths quick and shallow, his eyes fixed on the older man who tended him. “Isobel will fix you right up. Alright, come on.”

            Michel nodded for one of his men to assist White in scooping the boy off the floor. “There we go. Here, you take this side,” White instructed a second man. “Take ‘im out to my car. Don’t worry, I’ll be right there.” The boy was half-dragged, half-carried out the warehouse door, a slick of blood trailing behind him. Once he’d cleared the door, White turned back to Rodan with a steely gaze, apparently unconcerned that he was now covered in blood as well. “Now. About those f‑‑‑‑n’ diamonds.”

**

            Snow was spitting from the steel grey sky as Isobel sat huddled on the floor of the car. She had peeked out the window after White had left and seen the muddy yard of yet another rundown but otherwise nondescript warehouse, a depressingly common spectacle in this area. They might as well hang signs on them advertising the criminal nature of the activities occurring within; certainly nobody built or stored anything in warehouses anymore, unless of course it was stolen. At least she was warm in the running car while she waited for White to return with Colin; she hated being trapped outside, in the perpetually chilly air, trying to look tough like all these ridiculously posturing men did. Or trying _not_ to look cheap, like the women who were usually favored by White’s associates, the women with big hair, bright lips, short skirts, and fake breasts. White didn’t like cheap, at least. He knew her true value did not lay in her appearance anyway.

            There was a muffled noise from outside and Isobel saw the driver’s head turn towards the warehouse. She could ask him what was going on, but she didn’t really know him; he might be rude, or he might take her inquiry as invitation for other activities. And then White would have to kill him. Or he might actually need to focus on his job and not be distracted by her questions.

            Figures suddenly blotted out the feeble sunlight coming through the car window, and before Isobel could brace herself against the cold the door was wrenched open and the icy air filled the cab.

            “Okay, you got ‘im?”

            “Get his legs!”

            “C----t, I’ve got blood all over me!”

            “Shut up and set ‘im down.”

            “Watch his head!”

            Colin was, to put it mildly, a bloody mess when the two men eased him into the back seat, being their version of careful. White had heard he’d been injured when the heist went bad, hence why Isobel was brought along; but she hadn’t been expecting it to be _this_ severe. Maybe it looked worse than it really was?

            He didn’t sit up on his own but rather slumped over across the seat as soon as he was released. There was some additional shoving as the men put his feet back in, then they slammed the door without a word to Isobel and disappeared.

            “Colin? Colin? Can you hear me?” Isobel put her hand against his pale, damp face, chilled by his recent exposure to the outdoors. She slide her hand down, beneath the blood-soaked collar of his shirt, and felt his heart beating erratically in his chest. So he wasn’t dead yet, appearances to the contrary.

            There was a whistle behind her from the driver. “Wow, he is f----d up,” the man commented. “Glad I ain’t the one who has to clean this car later.” Isobel ignored him pointedly. “Say, is he even alive? If we’re totin’ home a f‑‑‑‑n’ corpse they coulda just dumped him in the trunk.”

            “Yes, he’s alive,” Isobel answered shortly, hoping White would return soon. Now that the driver had started speaking to her—his version of small talk, she supposed—she rather wished he would shut up. She hesitated only a moment before starting to unbutton her mandarin-collared dress; she had done this in less private locations, after all, and she didn’t think this guy would dare bother her with White and all his men about to return at any moment.

            Although she had been wrong about that before.

            “Hey, what are you doin’?” the driver asked intrusively. “Whoa, is this some kinda kinky thing you got goin’ on or—“

            “I’m trying to heal him,” Isobel interrupted in a business-like tone. She pressed Colin’s limp palm flat over her heart, the blood on his hand spreading to her skin. “If you could please be quiet.” She placed her own hand over Colin’s heart and immediately felt the warmth begin to flow between them. It was a curious sensation, on Isobel’s part at least; a sort of disconnect from everything else going on around her, even though she was still alert and aware. She could hear the driver mutter under his breath, watch the snow falling more thickly past the windows, even worry idly about the state of the roads when they finally took off again; but she felt as though she were somewhat tipsy, or perhaps had a head cold, which muffled her brain and dulled her senses.

            Colin’s fingers twitched of their own volition over her heart and she looked back at him from the hypnotizing snowfall, meeting his bright green gaze. He smirked a little, the tiniest bit, and his other hand came up to awkwardly bump her elbow. “Lie still,” she reminded him, feeling as though she’d said the words long after the moment had passed. The people she was healing didn’t usually notice her disorientation—they had bigger problems at the time.

            Colin was becoming more alert now, and no doubt more uncomfortable. Any pain that had been numbed by his loss of blood and consciousness would be returning soon, a necessary but unfortunate part of Isobel’s healing process. Colin’s eyes roamed the interior of the car, trying to figure out where he was, what had happened. Obviously he wasn’t in the safe confines of a familiar bedroom. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out; licking his cracked lips he tried again, with a bigger push of air. “Franco—“

            “He’ll be here soon,” Isobel promised, hoping it was the truth. She and Colin had been through this before and they both knew what was coming—she wouldn’t be able to hold him still during the worst of the pain while she tried to maintain the healing connection. And White’s presence was comforting anyway, which was an odd thing to realize about a man who was so feared by so many.

            Colin was already starting to squirm. “Shot, I was--f‑‑‑‑n’ shot,” he muttered, batting in confusion at the towel covering his wound. He couldn’t reach it properly with his free hand, which frustrated him more.

            “I know,” Isobel replied shortly. “I’m trying to help you. Lie still.”

            “F‑‑‑‑n’—can’t believe—she shot me—“

            “He got shot by some chick? That’s kinda funny!” commented the driver unhelpfully. “What, did some little old lady whip out her peashooter?”

            The driver had to laugh at his little joke by himself, however, because Isobel was otherwise occupied. “You’re going to be fine,” she told Colin, rubbing the hand she held over her heart. “You’re going to be healed soon. Just lie still. Be quiet.”

            But Colin was twitchy and chatty on the best of days, which today certainly wasn’t. “Should’ve waited,” he went on through gritted teeth, trying to sit up or perhaps merely back away from Isobel. She didn’t take it personally. “Too many cops—too fast—“

            “Maybe he got shot by a lady cop,” the driver joked in a suggestive tone. “I hear they give them big f‑‑‑‑n’ guns!”

            “Colin, hold still, please,” Isobel insisted, kneeling up to put more of her weight on him. She had one hand on his heart and the other hand holding _his_ hand in place; there was not a lot left to work with. “Just stay still. You’ll feel better soon.”

            “Hey, is he gonna keep up that f‑‑‑‑n’ noise for long?” the driver demanded less jovially. “It’s like a f‑‑‑‑n’ cat getting’ strangled.” Or a man re-experiencing a gunshot wound. Isobel was half-lying on top of Colin now, trying to keep him relatively still. “Hey, I said f‑‑‑‑n’ shut up back there!” the driver insisted. “What the f—k are you doin’ to him, anyway? Hey, f‑‑‑‑n’ answer me!”

            Obviously this fellow was new, possibly on his first job with White personally. With this kind of attitude, though, it might end up being his last. Isobel couldn’t say she objected.

            What she _did_ object to was the impatient and flustered driver reaching back to suddenly grab her shoulder. “Hey, I said—“

            Colin lunged forward with a shout, toppling Isobel to the floor of the cab and grabbing the startled driver. He was just lucid enough now to know he didn’t like what was going on, and just strong enough to do something about it. Isobel covered her head with her arms to avoid being kicked while Colin struggled pointlessly with the swearing driver. There was no way this was going to end well—either the driver would get a good punch in and Colin would be even _more_ injured, or Colin would start bleeding out again and pass out. Possibly that was preferable.

            “What the f—k is goin’ on here?” White demanded in his deadly flat tone, and Isobel felt another icy blast fill the cab from the open door. She also felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

            White made short work of the “fight” between the seriously injured man and the freaked out, awkwardly-positioned driver, yanking them apart like the bread on a peanut butter sandwich. “You, f‑‑‑‑n’ sit down!” he ordered the driver peevishly. “You, f‑‑‑‑n’ lay there!” he added to Colin, shoving him back into the seat. “And you,” he growled at Isobel, pulling her back up off the floor, “f‑‑‑‑n’ get up and do your job!”

            Hmm, not a successful meeting, then, Isobel surmised. White shoved Colin up roughly and sat down in the back seat, then helped Isobel arrange the younger man across his lap in a slightly gentler manner. Isobel pressed Colin’s hand back over her heart and placed her own over his again—it was easy to reestablish the connection, but the healing process always took longer if it had been interrupted. At least White was there to hold Colin down now and try to keep him calm.

            Vaguely Isobel felt another chill breeze—with her shirt front open it seemed to go straight into her bones—and then the car door slammed shut again with someone in the front seat.

            “You got it?” White asked.

            “Right here.” It was Michel, White’s most reliable employee.

            “Then let’s get the f—k out of here,” White grumbled. “I hope you f‑‑‑‑n’ drive smarter than you’ve acted so far,” he added threateningly to the drive, “‘cause it’s turning into a f‑‑‑‑n’ blizzard out here.”

            “Yes, Mr. White, right away, Mr. White,” the driver agreed nervously, starting to maneuver the vehicle out of the warehouse lot. Michel murmured directions into his cell phone, coordinating with the two other vehicles that had accompanied them.

            “You’re alright, kid, you’re okay,” White was telling Colin, gripping his free hand tightly. “That’s it, come on, Isobel’s gonna fix you right up. You’re gonna be back to f‑‑‑‑n’ like bunnies in no time. Just relax.”

            Something tickled in the back of Isobel’s mind, something important that she was supposed to remember. She wanted to concentrate on Colin, who was trying to get away from her, away from the burning in his belly as the gunshot wound was healed in a trial by fire. But there was something…

            “Hey, stay still,” White ordered Colin, holding him down. “Almost done, she’s almost done.”

            Isobel didn’t think she was really almost done. The injury had been quite extensive, after all. If they had been much later Colin probably would have died. And the break in the connection earlier meant it would take even longer than usual. Hopefully she would be done by the time they arrived back at the compound, because she didn’t want to sit in the car in some dank garage finishing up.

            Somehow that reminded her of the thing in the back of her mind. “Storeroom,” she murmured, opening her eyes to the oddly distant world.

            White glanced over at her. “What was that, honey?”

            Isobel took a deep breath and tried to enunciate clearly through the fog around her. “Store… room.”

            Dimly, she saw the light dawn in White’s eyes. “F—k!” He reached forward and whacked Michel on the back of the head. “F‑‑‑‑n’ storeroom! You were supposed to f‑‑‑‑n’ remember!”

            Michel did not take offense at this treatment. “Hey, I got the diamonds,” he shrugged.

            Whtie rolled his eyes. “F‑‑‑‑n’ diamonds. You can’t _eat_ f‑‑‑‑n’ diamonds, can you? You can’t wipe you a-s with them, can you?”

            “You can’t?” Michel asked innocently. “I thought you could do anything, boss.”

            “F—k you,” White replied with exasperation. “Call back home and see if we really need to stop. And _you_ find the nearest storeroom—not one we usually go to, they’re f‑‑‑‑n’ runnin’ dry,” he added to the driver. “Stay the f—k still!” he snapped at the squirming Colin.

            “Jacques says we really need to stop,” Michel reported a moment later. “We’re low on a lot of basics, since the supply truck fell off that bridge last week.”

            “Okay, okay, we better f‑‑‑‑n’ stop, then,” White decided with a sigh. “Tell the other cars. You know where the f—k you’re goin’?”

            “Yes, sir,” the driver answered quickly. “There’s a storeroom about four clicks down this road. Sir.”

            White peered out the window at the slowly-passing buildings. “F—k. Four clicks in this weather? I hope we f‑‑‑‑n’ make it back before dark.”

            “We’ll make it,” Michel opined optimistically.

            “Yeah, you’re calmin’ down, aren’t you?” White muttered to Colin a few minutes later. “I told you she was almost done. You’re gonna be fine. At least until I beat your a-s for bein’ so f‑‑‑‑n’ stupid back there.”

            Gradually the heat of the connection began to fade, rousing Isobel slightly from her stupor. She always felt cold afterwards, and exhausted, drained. No surprise there, it was a demanding procedure. But now she almost wished it _had_ taken longer, that she _had_ finished in a dank garage inside the compound, because at least then they would be home, and not still roaming the streets running errands when she and Colin needed to sleep. But there was no help for that now. When she finally pulled her hand back from Colin, she saw his eyes open blearily for a moment, then slide shut again as he slipped into unconsciousness. It was a demanding procedure for him as well.

            “You all done?” White asked, not for the first time it seemed as he patted Isobel’s cheek lightly to focus her attention. She nodded sleepily, letting Colin’s hand fall away from her chest. “We’re at the storeroom. Hey, are you listenin’ to me?” White insisted, giving her a shake. Isobel tried to keep her eyes open a bit longer. “We’re gonna go in, grab some stuff, and get the f—k home before the weather gets worse. You sit tight here, got it?” Isobel nodded dumbly; there wasn’t any way she was equipped to do anything else. “And you, keep the f‑‑‑‑n’ car runnin’, got it?”

            “Yes, sir,” answered the driver promptly.

            “Come on,” White added to Michel, opening the car door to the snowy pavement in front of the worn, blocky building. “Let’s get this f‑‑‑‑n’ over with.”

            The compound White maintained was fairly small, compared to those of his colleagues; he was a hard man who lived in hard times and he didn’t believe in opening the gates to every guard’s mother’s best friend’s nephew and his seven children, the way some people did. Some people who were quickly eaten out of house and home by shiftless freeloaders, White noted. He also didn’t need to have a massive community under his control so he could pretend he was some kind of king, like that flashy SOB Vassily. And who did Vassily turn to when he needed a loan to expand his gold-plated casinos? White, of course, who hadn’t blown his cash on ridiculous ‘entertainment empires’ to begin with.

            Although he didn’t mind temporarily investing in them, on occasion, when the interest rate was high and he knew where Vassily slept at night.

            But White did feel somewhat obligated to provide food for whomever he _did_ allow in the compound. You had to be able to trust the people closest to you—to a certain extent, anyway—and leaving them susceptible to bribes of a few pounds of fresh meat was not smart.

            “Beans, rice, flour, sugar, salt,” White recited, looking at the wheeled pallet Michel had assembled. “What’s this?”

            “Oh, I cleaned out the spice rack,” Michel reported with a smirk. “I thought maybe I would make a nice curry. A little milk powder, a little reindeer sausage…”

            White rolled his eyes. “Where’s the f‑‑‑‑n’—“

            Another pallet rolled over to him. “I got a bunch of veggies, boss,” the henchman steering it reported with far too much excitement. “And look—I found a bushel and a half of apples, just sitting in a corner!”

            White peered at the pitted fruit dubiously. “Well make sure they ain’t all f‑‑‑‑n’ spoiled first before buyin’ them,” he ordered, with a warning glance at the nervous storeowner hovering nearby. The owners of the storerooms closer to the compound knew better than to try cheating White, but a desperate stranger might risk it.

            “Alright, pack it up,” he ordered his men, who were maneuvering the awkward pallets towards the cash register. “Don’t overload the trucks or you’ll get f‑‑‑‑n’ stuck. And I’ll come back for the food and leave _you_ behind,” he promised. “Wrap this up real good in plastic, understand?” he added to the storeowner, indicating a bolt of fabric on the counter. The shimmering blue-grey material—maybe silk, maybe polyester—was a rare find, and White knew Isobel could make something of it. “It better not get f‑‑‑‑n’ ruined.” The man nodded his understanding. “Hurry up with the—“

            “Boss,” Michel interrupted urgently, nodding out the front window.

            “F—k,” White exclaimed, and headed outside.

            The gunshot echoed off the concrete walls of the surrounding buildings, sharp and clear in the swiftly-darkening parking lot. The last thing White was worried about was someone calling the police, though. They probably wouldn’t have come anyway.

            “What the f—k are you doing?!” he demanded of Colin, who stood in the middle of the snow, covered in dried blood, still pointing his gun at the man on the ground—White’s driver. Former driver, rather.

            Colin was not contrite. “I come to and he’s got his f‑‑‑‑n’ hand up her skirt!” he reported indignantly, finally holstering his gun. “Like he’s bought real estate in her p---y and he’s checkin’ out the square footage!”

            “F‑‑‑‑n’ h—l,” White muttered in exasperation. Like he hadn’t had enough problems today. He walked over to take a closer look at the body, careful to avoid the red-stained snow. “Hmm. Looks like he was startin’ to bleed anyway,” he observed. “Guess you did him a f‑‑‑‑n’ favor, then.”

            “Oh. Well, I didn’t f‑‑‑‑n’ mean to,” Colin decided, with some disappointment.

            A movement caught White’s eye and he looked back at the car to see Isobel twitching in the snow, like she’d started to crawl out of the car and ran out of energy halfway through. “C‑‑‑‑t!” She’d probably get pneumonia or something, White thought as he hurried over to scoop her back up. “Bad f‑‑‑‑n’ day, huh?”

            “Colin?” she asked blearily as White reached for her.

            “I’m right here, Izzy, I’m right…” And then he was on top of White, the adrenaline having suddenly given out.

            White had several choice words to say as he hauled _both_ more or less unconscious people into the running, driverless car, propping them up against each other in what were probably uncomfortable positions.

            “Need any help, boss?” one of his dimmer minions finally asked, after he had finished.

            “Yeah, moron, go sit behind the wheel,” White snapped, trying not to shiver. Tough guys didn’t shiver.

            The man looked uncertain. “Gee, boss, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, on account of my night vision ain’t so good and—“

            “Shut the f—k up.” The man did so. “Michel will drive,” White assured him, realizing what the man’s limitations were. “You just f‑‑‑‑n’ sit there ‘til he comes out, so no one steals the f‑‑‑‑n’ car. Got it?” He did. White hoped. Otherwise this very long and less-than-satisfactory day was going to get even worse.

**

            White was watching TV when Isobel dragged herself out of the bedroom, bundled in flannel pajamas and a thick robe. The apartment was a comfortable temperature to White; but Isobel had apparently been born in the wrong climate. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong people, he thought idly as she curled up on his lap. He turned the inane but entertaining game show down a bit and ran his hand soothingly over her back.

            “You feel better?” he asked after a moment. She shrugged wordlessly. “You done a good job today, with Colin,” he praised her. “When I saw him I thought that was f‑‑‑‑n’ gonna be the end of it.” Isobel sniffled in response and burrowed her face more tightly against White’s chest. Well, what was he supposed to talk about, kittens and butterflies? There didn’t seem to be any of those around here anyway. Unless moths counted as butterflies. “Hey, d’you see what I got you?” he went on, trying to think of something more pleasant. “It’s pretty, huh?”

            At this Isobel tried to rouse herself a little. “Mm-hmm,” she mumbled. “It’s shiny. Thank you.”

            “You can make somethin’ nice out of it, huh?” and she nodded.

            “I could make a new dress… I could use those buttons from that old blue one…” Not that White cared about buttons. But on occasion, even hard men in hard times liked to make someone happy.

            There were some noises from the next room and White rolled his eyes. “Oh, here he comes, boy wonder.” There went the peaceful contemplation of dress buttons.

            Colin bounded into the room and immediately scrambled up on the couch, practically on top of White and Isobel. White knew the pattern all too well—incredible pain from the injury, incredible pain from the healing, incredible exhaustion, and then, upon awakening… incredible _eagerness_. “Hi, Izzy!” Colin insisted, shoving his face into hers to kiss her. “Thanks for healing me!”

            It didn’t seem to work the same way for Isobel, however, and she pushed at his shoulder in protest. “Leave me alone.” She wasn’t quite done with her nap yet.

            “Aw, come on,” Colin persisted, stroking her face and hair almost unconsciously. “Don’t feel bad about that guy, he was a b-----d, and anyway _I_ shot him.”

            White rolled his eyes. “Wow, you’re a smooth f‑‑‑‑n’ talker, huh?” he observed sarcastically. “You know just what to say to the ladies. And quit f‑‑‑‑n’ pokin’ at her, she is gonna slap you.”

            “Stop it,” Isobel whined, smacking Colin’s wandering hand.

            “Come on, Izzy, I just wanna thank you proper—“

            “Okay, that’s it, you’re on your own,” White decided, shoving Isobel off his lap. “I ain’t gettin’ in the middle of your little games. But I advise you to quit f‑‑‑‑n’ antagonizin’ her.”

            “I won’t antagonize her,” Colin promised, wrapping his arms around Isobel. “I just wanna hold her. That’s okay, ain’t it?”

            “She’s upset,” White advised. “Don’t f—k with her.”

            “I’m not, I’m not,” Colin insisted, trying to still himself. “It’s okay, Izzy, really.”

            Isobel sniffled again, this time in Colin’s arms. “I just don’t like hurting people,” she murmured.

            “Well you’re f‑‑‑‑n’ good at it,” White was forced to conclude.


End file.
